


light as snow

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Lights, Holidays, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I prompted tiltedsyllogism with "Mycroft and Greg, snow/lights" for her advent fic calendar and then got a plotbunny for it myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	light as snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/gifts).
  * Inspired by [God Rest Ye Sleuthy, Gentlemen: A BBC Sherlock Advent Calendar Drabble collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705792) by [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism). 



> Thanks to patternofdefiance for making sure my writing is in tip-top shape.

Greg reaches back down over the edge of the gutters for the last string of lights. Mycroft, incongruous but elegant at the top of the ladder, feeds Greg the wires, his long fingers deftly straightening them. Greg knows that LED bulbs are more environmental but he’s always loved the parchment-gold shade of light cast by regular bulbs against snow, and if he is going to spend Christmas in a bloody manor house that belongs on a postcard it is going to bloody well look the way he wants it to.

Greg scoots himself up the roof, unable to resist the temptation to survey the land surrounding the house. He glances over toward Mycroft. “Join me?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow but Greg pretends he doesn’t hear the unspoken commentary. Instead, he darts his tongue across his lips, ostensibly to combat the wind against his skin. Mycroft’s eyes hardly flicker but Greg knows how Mycroft feels about his tongue. Greg holds out his hand and Mycroft takes it.

Mycroft ascends with cautious delicacy, not quite clumsy but without the surety Greg has developed during years of chasing criminals — and Sherlock — around London. Greg helps him to sit before turning to survey the landscape. He stretches out his arms to feel the tug of the wind, imagining flying over the rolling hills of the land dusky with twilight and snow.

Greg hears the barest hint of an indrawn breath behind him and then it flashes behind his eyes, the memory of Sherlock's outflung arms no less terrifying for all that the mystery of it has been explained. He drops his arms.

Mycroft's face eases as Greg sits, brings their shoulders together into a line of warmth against the cold. The wind brushes icy fingers against their faces as snow feathers across the sky.


End file.
